


surf 'n' turf

by bellafarallones



Category: Mothman (Folklore), The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Banter, Consensual Sex, Eggpreg, Gender-neutral Reader, Monster/Human Romance, Other, Oviposition, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Teratophilia, world where monsters and humans coexist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:40:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28158444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellafarallones/pseuds/bellafarallones
Summary: There were hands at the back of your head, brushing against your hair, and the blindfold fell away. You were in a cave, near enough to the entrance that there was enough light to see who’d approached you. A moth-person. “There,” he said. “That’s better. Where is your mate?” The red glow of his eyes was comforting, somehow, like twin lighthouse beams guiding you to shore.“Don’t have a mate,” you said. You hadn’t been thinking straight. You’d been drunk and met a creature who’d confided that they needed an incubator and promised they could make you feel good, and you’d spread your legs. Now here you were.
Relationships: Indrid Cold (The Adventure Zone)/Reader, Mothman (Character)/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 45





	surf 'n' turf

Consciousness came back slowly, and you felt each new sensation with the detached interest of a beachcomber examining the treasures revealed in the sand as the tide went out. 

You couldn’t move. You were in pain and you couldn’t move. It was a dull pain, whatever consolation that was, the pain of a stomach stuffed until it bulged, and, lower, the ache of unfulfilled arousal. Pressing your thighs together did nothing but tease your swollen, oversensitive slit.

You also couldn’t see. There was something vaguely sticky around your wrists and ankles, keeping you from moving, and a blindfold over your eyes. But mostly all you could think of was the stretch - you were so full you doubted you would have been able to move even if you hadn’t been bound, and whatever it was inside you, you couldn’t expel it by normal means. 

A voice cut through the fog. “Are you alright?” it said.

All you could do was groan. There were hands at the back of your head, brushing against your hair, and the blindfold fell away. You were in a cave, near enough to the entrance that there was enough light to see who’d approached you. A moth-person. “There,” he said. “That’s better. Where is your mate?” The red glow of his eyes was comforting, somehow, like twin lighthouse beams guiding you to shore.

“Don’t have a mate,” you said.

“Who knocked you up, then?” He knelt, pulling at the stuff binding your feet. You guessed it was some bodily secretion of the monster who’d laid in you. 

“Don’t know. One-night stand.”

“Hm. Well, it was rather rude of them to leave you like this.” In a moment your feet were free and he stood up to work on your wrists. 

You hadn’t been thinking straight. You’d been drunk and met a creature who’d confided that they needed an incubator and promised they could make you feel good, and you’d spread your legs. Now here you were. 

Well, as the previous night came drifting back, you remembered that they _had_ made you feel good. Now, though, you mostly just felt full. As the moth-person eased you back down to the ground, your overfull belly pressed against his chest and you moaned at the pressure.

“I know,” he said, with the tone of one calming a small animal, as he allowed you to settle in his lap. “I know it’s uncomfortable.”

You thought you recognized him, now; he took the same train as you did most days to work and you’d always thought his wings were very attractive. But you’d never spoken, and you supposed he had no reason to remember you, unremarkable and human as you were. 

He handed you a metal water bottle and you drank, finding the liquid inside not water but something sweet and thick and vaguely cinnamony.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “It’s all I had on me.”

“Thank you,” you said, clinging to him, past the point of dignity now that you were dripping some unidentifiable monster-fluid from between your legs into his lap. “Please. Please make it stop hurting.”

He had four arms, which was perfect, two to hold you up with and two to rub soothing circles into your distended belly. The eggs inside you were somewhat malleable, gelatinous, but the outlines of them still stood out through the skin. “Poor human,” he cooed. “So helpless, you don’t even know what to do to make it better. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”

“God, now I’m hungover _and_ horny,” you whimpered. You already felt a bit better than you had, but now the eggs were putting pressure on new places inside you, stoking your arousal. You squirmed, thighs shiny with your own slick.

“Well, I can’t do anything about the hangover besides not exposing you to any bright lights,” he said mildly. “But the cramping should ease up if you manage to have an orgasm.”

“Please let me come.”

“You don’t need permission from me.” He sounded almost amused. 

“Please _make_ me come.” And then, when he shifted you so that your thighs straddled one of his and you could grind on him, his strong hands on your hips holding you to him, your hips twitched helplessly and you whimpered your thanks into the fluff of his neck.

When you came the muscles of your stomach seized, clenching suddenly around the eggs, and then went slack, more relaxed than they had been, and the cramps faded to vague soreness. You relaxed into his arms and he kept massaging your belly. “There, I bet that feels better, doesn’t it?”

“Uh-huh.” Some of your capacity for thought was returning. “How long is this going to last?”

“The eggs? Depending on the species of the sire, anywhere from twenty-four hours to a week.”

You groaned, imagining a _week_ of this. You could bear it if he was here, though, if he kept you warm and fed and fucked you through it. “They had a lot of tentacles,” you said, squinting through the haze of memory.

“Shouldn’t be too long, then. The eggs should figure out quickly that you’re not the right species to implant in. If it had been someone more simian they’d take longer to be expelled.”

“Thank you for your help,” you said. “I really - I really didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“It’s no trouble. Now that you’re lucid, I can call someone, if you’d like?”

You shook your head. “Please stay. Your hands are magic.”

He laughed. “Thanks. Happy to help. I, ah. I was passing by and smelled you. You’re - it’s - well…” He trailed off.

“Oh, god.” You were a little embarrassed to think of how many passersby had been able to tell just how wrecked you were, and distracted yourself from it by looking up at him. “Can I touch your wings? They’re very pretty.”

“If you’d like,” he said, extending them obligingly. His breathing quickened when your fingertips brushed a maroon eyespot. “Sorry, they’re… sensitive.”

“Oh, are you embarrassed?” you teased. “I’m out here dripping egg juice all over you and _you’re_ embarrassed?”

“Fair point,” he admitted. You stroked his wings some more - they were _gorgeous,_ and the texture was like nothing you’d ever felt before - making him squirm, and that movement jostled the eggs inside of you, and suddenly you were gasping again.

“Oh. Please.” You could feel his arousal, now, the needy cadence of his breathing. “Please fuck me.”

“You’re already full,” he said bemusedly.

“I want you.” 

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” He petted you gently, your overfull belly and slick thighs. “I just wish I’d bought you dinner first.”

“We can do that after.” You dragged your blunt nails down his chest, eliciting a gratifying _hngh_ noise. “If you do good I’ll get you a nice ‘thank you for fucking me’ flower arrangement and we can be all romantic about it.”

“Well, if there’s a bouquet on the line.” He rubbed thoughtful circles over your inner thighs with his thumbs. “How should we do this… can you get up on your knees?”

“Yes please,” you said, and scrambled off his lap. Your belly was so heavy it was difficult to kneel, even moreso than you’d anticipated, but two of his arms encircled you, supporting you, his chest pressed to your back and his cock against your ass. 

“Good?”

“Yes please, please fuck me -”

“Spread your thighs?” You obeyed. “Now close them.” You groaned as you saw where he was going with this, his cock pressed against you but not penetrating. 

“Oh, you’re so good, so warm, and you smell even better than usual when you’re all needy like this -” He held you so firmly against him you couldn’t even squirm, and his hips stuttered against yours as he fucked your thighs, the top of his cock pressing against your slit. “I don’t see how they could have left you, you’re so hot like this, if it’d been me I would have taken care of you, held you and made you feel better, would have done _anything_ -”

His words came out in a desperate rush, and it didn’t take him long to finish, his fluids mingling with yours on the floor. You were so close you couldn’t help but rut against his cock even as it softened, and he laughed and put his hand between your legs, let you use what little strength you had left to get yourself off with his words still echoing in your ears. 

When the ache faded again you curled up against his chest, slipping back into loopiness. “You’re such a good mate,” you murmured against him. You knew a little of how monsters talked to each other. 

“I’m not your mate,” he said fondly.

You pressed your face into his fuzzy neck. His arms felt so good and right and strong around you. He’d protect you. He’d take care of you. He already had. 

“Fine,” he said finally, pressing a chaste kiss to your sweaty forehead. “For today I’m your mate.”

**Author's Note:**

> i had fun writing this and that's all that really counts tbh. [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27692107) did roughly the same premise first but with transformers and significantly less romantic vibes. you can also find me on tumblr @bellafarallones


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